


Martyrs for Love

by Calais_Reno



Series: Conductor of Light [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Courting Rituals, Don't copy to another site, Jealousy, M/M, Matchmaking, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes underestimates women, Story: A Scandal in Bohemia, disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28338486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Sherlock is approached by a secretive client who will pay well to recover a picture that could create a scandal.Sherlock's mother asks to meet John Watson; she has something to announce to her two sons.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Conductor of Light [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983838
Comments: 65
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

“We are invited to dinner,” Mycroft told me. “Mother says that you are to bring your protégé as well.” He nodded at Watson. “She reads your stories in the Strand and has requested to meet you.”

We were having tea in the sitting room at Baker Street. My brother had taken the chair opposite mine and was regarding me with a sour look. Watson was hovering deferentially with the teapot because he knows that irritates Mycroft.

Watson looked a bit startled. “Requested?”

Mycroft gave me a thin smile, not deigning to look at Watson. “Demanded.”

“Did she find the stories… erm… acceptable?”

I snorted. “She no doubt found them tediously romantic and illogical.”

My brother set his cup down in the saucer, where it was refilled at once by Watson. Mycroft smirked up at him.“You have not met our mother. Whatever she thinks of your writing, she will not hesitate to tell you. You will find her an _unusual_ woman, I think.”

I thought of some other adjectives, but did not give them voice. “And what is the occasion of this command performance?” I asked. “I have faithfully put in an appearance at every Christmas dinner and on her birthday. I hardly see a reason to spend more time in her presence.”

“She said that she plans to make an announcement,” Mycroft replied. “She is getting up in years, you know. It may be that she wishes to let us know her intentions.”

“ _Up in years_ hardly describes it,” I said. “ _Uppity in years_ , rather. She will refuse to be outlived by any of us, Mycroft, not even her own children, if she can help it.”

He sighed and took another biscuit. “Brother mine, she is not immortal.”

Seeing the plate depleted, Watson hastened to supply more biscuits. “She must be proud of you both,” he remarked.

I frowned. “Must she?”

Mycroft took two more biscuits. “She is a proud woman, and a very old-fashioned one. Very proper. Since our father’s death nearly twenty years ago, she has not taken off her mourning silks.”

“Very proper, considering that she was responsible for his death,” I added. “Who could survive such a woman?”

Watson’s face took on a look of shocked surprise.

“Pay no heed to my brother,” Mycroft said. “Our father died many years ago— of a _heart attack_.” He gave me a severe look.

“Brought about by her incessant fault-finding,” I replied.

Mycroft looked at me over the top of his spectacles. “You are resentful.”

“Resentful? Of you?”

“Though you have always cast yourself in the role of the prodigal, she does not favour me over you, Sherlock. Nor you over me.”

“She hates us both equally, then. It does not matter what we achieve; until one of us produces an heir, we are both failures.”

“An heir?” Watson set down his cup with a clatter. “She expects you to marry?”

“She has given up on me,” Mycroft replied. He eyed the biscuits warily, hesitated, then took another. “I am what can politely be termed a _confirmed bachelor._ Sherlock, being the younger, is the sole focus of her displeasure now. Her friends have eligible daughters; she has an eligible son. Such arrangements require more intense negotiation than most international treaties, as well as skills that she has spent her entire life honing. Sherlock has nearly reached the ideal age for marriage, and she is ready to open deliberations with several families. Her displeasure lies in his refusal to consider marriage at all.”

“I shall never marry,” I said, “lest it bias my judgment.” My disgust was aimed both at my mother’s foolish plans and any potential brides she might put forward.

My brother set down his cup and heaved himself up from the chair. “I believe that ship has already sailed, dear brother.” He cast a glance at Watson, who rose and brought him his coat, returning Watson’s deferential bow with a curt nod. “I will see you both tomorrow evening.”

After Mycroft left, Watson busied himself in the kitchen, washing and drying the tea cups, returning them to the cupboard.

I sat thinking about my mother’s plan to ruin my life. No doubt she gave up on Mycroft because he is more devious than I am, which is saying a lot. He clearly _lied_ , reassuring her that he would marry, and then blithely stepped around all the women she put in his path. I also am quite sure he suggested that I would be a much better candidate than he, and she saw both the futility of marrying him off and the possibility that I, being younger, might more easily be influenced. Our mother is hard-headed, but she respects diplomacy. She enjoys the challenge of bending people to her will.

I heard Watson clattering in the kitchen and considered the look I’d seen on his face when Mycroft explained the purpose of the invitation. It gave me guilty satisfaction that he was worried about my potential marriage. Though I had no intention of giving in to my mother, it would not hurt to encourage his jealousy, just a bit.

Dinner might be entertaining.

At six o’clock, Mrs Hudson brought up a letter for me. I’d spent the afternoon watching Watson organising my files, which was about as stimulating as watching paint dry. Actually less stimulating, as drying paint yields some data worth retaining. Watson in the throes of organisation was frustrating to watch, as he kept humming to himself and backtracking, removing and reordering the same files. Every now and then he would raise his head and ask a question, the answer to which was inevitably obvious, at least to me.

I kept my humour, however, and spent the time cataloguing his expressions.

I was glad when the letter arrived, as it might mean a case worth pursuing.

“Listen to this, Watson,” I said. “Tell me what you think.”

_There will call upon you tonight at eight o’clock a gentleman who desires to consult with you on a matter of the deepest moment. Be in your chamber at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask._

“A mystery,” Watson said. “What does it mean?”

“Without data, it would be a mistake to theorise. But the note itself — what can you deduce from it?”

“The writer is well-to-do,” he said. “The paper must have been quite expensive.”

“German. Note the watermark.”

Watson held it to the light. “ _EgPGt_. The maker?”

“Bohemian. Think on it, Watson. There’s money in this case, if nothing else.”

Eight o’clock found me prepared to meet my secretive visitor, wrapped in my tattiest dressing gown, smoking and cultivating a superior attitude. I do not mind dealing with the highest levels of society; they generally pay well. I have no obligation, however, to be obsequious.They pay for my services just the same as my humblest client, and will receive the same level of attention.

Watson discreetly began to pack up his filing project and tidy up the sitting room, where we always receive visitors. As the bell began its toll, he moved towards the stairway leading up to his room.

“If you won’t be needing anything—“ he began.

“Where are you going, Watson? Sit down. I predict that this will be interesting.”

“A client who feels compelled to wear a mask will expect to meet with you, the consulting detective, alone,” he replied. “He may not like to share details if I am in the room.”

“Sit,” I ordered. “He may expect several things in which he will be disappointed.”

The bell rang downstairs, loudly and insistently. We heard Mrs Hudson opening the door and speaking to our client (loud, imperious, German accent) then his feet mounting the stairs.

The gentleman who was ushered into the room by Mrs Hudson was extremely tall, at least six and a half feet, and heavily built. Our landlady quickly bowed and ducked out of the room. Watson politely stood in greeting, but I kept my seat, motioned for Watson to sit at the desk.

As promised, the visitor wore a black mask. Opulently dressed to the point of bad taste, he strode into the room. Everything about him— his bearing, his movements, his clothing, and what I could see of his expression— said that he was an arrogant and obstinate man, accustomed to having his demands met.

He gave his name as Count Von Kramm. I offered him the chair opposite mine. Watson stood by the desk, his writing notebook open and ready to receive information, waiting for our guest to be seated before taking his own seat.

Von Kramm looked at him with undisguised, almost regal contempt. “Who is this _person_? Why is he here?”

“This is Doctor John Watson, my partner. You may trust him as you trust me.”

“I do not know him—

“You will trust both of us, or neither of us. Which will it be?”

“This is a matter of great delicacy.” Von Kramm frowned, his eyes still on Watson, who did not seem at all cowed by him, but remained standing, almost defiantly courteous.

“I am aware of that,” I said, lounging back in my seat. “If _your Majesty_ would condescend to state your case, perhaps I can advise you.”

The man took a step towards me, his whole demeanour threatening. For a moment he simply stood there, towering over me. Then quite suddenly he tore off his mask. “I am the King, it is true. Why should I conceal it?”

“Why indeed?” I said.

“I am not used to doing business in my own person,” he replied. “But the need for secrecy is great. I cannot confide in an agent.”

“Then kindly take a seat so that Dr Watson may be seated as well.” I motioned to Watson that hs should sit. His eyes darted from me to our royal guest and back again, unable to decide who was the ranking personage. The king carried on glaring.

“Will everyone please _sit down!”_ I said rather loudly. _“_ I realise that this may not be the protocol you are used to, your Majesty, but you are in my home, not your own. You came to me, and I would not be much of a detective if I could not keep a confidence.”

He took the seat I offered. “You have heard of Irene Adler?”

“The contralto? Yes, I have. I have not had the pleasure of hearing her sing, however.”

“She is an American,” he said. “I met her when she performed at the Opera House in Prague. After that meeting, I enjoyed a relationship with her for several months. Obviously, she is not on my level. Though she would have made an admirable queen, it was necessary to end our relationship.”

“And you parted amicably?”

He shrugged. “She could have no expectation of marriage from me, considering my position.”

“The problem?” I pressed.

“I am currently engaged to be married to the daughter of the King of Scandinavia. It is an excellent match which will resolve certain diplomatic issues between our countries. Miss Adler, however, possesses a somewhat suggestive photograph of the two of us and threatens to send it to the family of my fiancee. This family, one of the foremost in Europe, has very strict old-world principles. The photograph would bring to an end our engagement, which is to be announced three days hence. Miss Adler has promised to make the photograph public on that day.”

I yawned. “Sufficient time to manage. As to money…?”

“You have carte blanche.”

“Very well,” I said. “I will drop you a line to let your know our progress.”

Once the King had departed, Watson turned to me “Your manners leave something to be desired, Holmes. If Queen Victoria herself were to come here, seeking your help, would you have stood for her?”

“Of course. She is our Queen, and a lady. In any case, she would not appear in our rooms, but summon us to the palace.”

Watson’s eyes widened. “Indeed. Perhaps I will one day see that. I’d also like to see the photograph that’s worrying our client so much. _Suggestive,_ he said.”

“For the heir to any throne, that could simply mean that they were photographed together. It does not imply anything indecent.”

“Still, to allow himself to be photographed with a woman he did not plan to marry was surely risky.”

I waved a dismissive hand. “It is as I have always said, Watson. While sentiment is the natural state for a woman’s mind, it invariably biases a man’s judgement. I intend to sit up a while, contemplating the matter. Go to bed, Watson. We will discuss it in the morning.”

The following day, Watson had two lectures to attend. When he returned home in the early afternoon, I hustled him back down to the street and hailed us a cab.

“Why are you dressed as a clergyman?” he asked.

“Obviously I am in disguise, Watson. Did you think I had taken vows?”

“I thought perhaps you intended to, if only to foil your mother’s plans.”

“Futile,” I replied. “She knows I am an atheist.”

“And where are we off to?”

“The home of Irene Adler.”

“You have made an appointment with her to discuss the portrait?”

I snorted. “That would rather give away the whole game. No, I plan to get inside her house and find the portrait.”

“She’s not at home then. You have done some reconnaissance, I presume.”

“You are mistaken. She is indeed at home. Or at least I hope so. Her presence is necessary to the success of my plan.”

“And what exactly is your plan?”

“I will convince Miss Adler to let me inside by a ruse. You will wait outside the house in a spot where you can see into the window. When I signal you thus, by waving my hand, you will throw _this_ through the window.” I handed Watson what looked like a cigar-sized missile. “It’s a plumber’s smoke-rocket. When you throw it, you must raise a cry of _fire._ Can you do this?”

“Of course! Nothing could be simpler.”

“You don’t mind breaking the law? Possibly being arrested?”

Watson chuckled. “My dear Holmes, do you really need to ask? I am hardly unacquainted with the inside of a gaol cell.”

“Splendid. Mind, you must not interfere in any way. Once I go inside, you will wait at the window for my signal.”

“You may rely on me,” he said.

When we were close to the house, I pulled Watson into an alley.

“You must hit me.” I gestured at my chin. “Strike me where it will make a mark.”

“Strike you?” He frowned. “You’re a clergyman.”

“Obviously. It’s part of the ruse. She will not hesitate to admit a harmless clergyman who’s been assaulted. Now, strike me!”

“Who would assault a clergyman? Do you really think she will believe this story?”

“Watson, I know what I’m doing. I’m simply asking you to—“

He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Holmes.”

“I have studied boxing, Watson. You are shorter than I am, which means your blows to my face will lack the power of a taller assailant. You need only mark my face. Now, strike!”

He laughed. “Studied? You’ve _studied_ boxing? Have you ever been set upon by five larger boys with humiliating intent? I have, and whatever you think of my stature, I am certain that I could knock you out cold if I wanted to.”

“We will have to test that hypothesis some other time, Watson. I mean no insult to your physique in suggesting that your punch will not be powerful enough to hurt me. It’s simply physics, my good man. No doubt you are a scrapper, capable of scaring off a band of thugs. Physically, though, the best you can do is bruise me. Do not worry that you will cause permanent harm.” I turned my face to the left, exposing my jaw. “Now, be so kind as to assault me.”

He glowered a bit, and I could tell that I had injured his pride. “Very well,” he said at last. “Do not blame me.”

His fist coming at my jaw was one moment in time. Lying on my back, looking up at the sky was another. I do not remember the moment in between. Reaching up, I felt the side of my face. He had not hit my jaw, but further up, near the temple. I assumed this was why I felt dizzy.

“Holmes!” I heard his voice, shouting rather loudly in my ear, and felt his hand on my face. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” I said, sitting up and shooing away the lights that sparked around me. “Thank you.”

“Holmes, I’m sorry— you had me a bit piqued, and I’m afraid I hit you harder than I intended.”

I moved my jaw, tested my neck by turning my head back and forth. “No worries. A very precise hit, indeed.” Gingerly, I felt my face. “I’m sure you left an authentic mark. No one will doubt that I’ve been assaulted.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary. I did ask you to strike me, and you delivered. Feel free to refuse, however, if I ever make such a request again.”

Watson made himself scarce, promising to work his way around the house to the window where he must wait. I staggered into the street, feigning injury— not a difficult pretence at that point— reminding myself never to provoke Watson’s temper.

I encountered several ostlers in a lane which ran beside the house. Seeing me stumbling, they ran to help me. In a very few minutes they’d brought me to the house, where the bruise on my face gained me entrance.

In a short time, the lady herself came down to ask what had happened.

I find females uninteresting for the most part. Women frequently come to me for help with their problems, and sometimes the problems themselves are interesting. The women, however, have little intellectual capacity. Watson argues that this is the fault of men, who have limited their opportunities for mental development.

 _That is as it should be,_ I replied to this argument. _Men cannot bear children, obviously. If we let women lecture at universities, make laws, apprehend criminals, or perform surgery, who would raise the children?_

He asked whether my mother had actually _raised_ my brother and me.

 _Naturally not,_ I replied. The truth is that my mother is an Intelligent woman, an impatient woman, one who cannot bear to converse with small children. She waited until Mycroft was five before speaking with him, leaving the tedious stages of linguistic development to women of lesser intellect who were not so easily bored. We had our first real conversation at my father’s funeral, when I was nearly six, that conversation consisting mainly of her insisting that I use a handkerchief if I must snivel.

My first impression of Miss Adler was that she, like my mother, was intellectually gifted, not a woman to be taken lightly. Unlike my mother, she had a career of her own and was used to cleverly manipulating men, not bludgeoning them into obedience. Clearly our client had underestimated her.

But she had not yet met me. For all her cleverness, she was still a woman. Her charms would have no effect on me. Without meaning to, she would give herself away, show me where she had hidden the portrait.

I explained that I’d been assaulted by masked men who beat me and ran away. With real concern, she insisted that I lie on the sofa in the drawing room until my head cleared, and offered to call me a doctor. I declined, saying that a few minutes reclining with my eyes closed would set me right. She would send someone to check on me in a half an hour, she said, and left the room.

It was time to set my plan in motion. As soon as I was alone, I went to the window and signalled Watson, who tossed the smoke rocket into the room and raised the cry. I saw Miss Adler descend the staircase, the drawing room filling with smoke, and began calling for the servants to take action. My eyes remained fixed on her.

In the confusion I was able to exit through the front door. I met Watson at the street corner and took him by the arm, quickly walking us away from the house.

“Have you solved it?” he asked when we were out of the area.

“I know where she keeps the photo.”

“And how did you determine that?”

“When you cried out _fire,_ she gave herself away. Like all women, she protects the thing she values the most. A mother would head straight for her child, an unmarried woman will grab her jewel box. Miss Adler went to the place where she had the photograph hidden — a recess behind a sliding panel in the drawing room, just beside the bell-pull. When I called out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it. Tomorrow we will watch the flat until she leaves, break in and steal it.”

Watson’s amazement was worth the bruise that still throbbed on my face. “Brilliant!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Holmes unveils her plan. Sherlock has a plan as well.

Mycroft had instructed us to arrive early for Mummy’s dinner, before the other guests, so we made haste to change into our evening attire as soon as we returned to Baker Street. I asked Mrs Hudson’s boy to hail us a cab.

As we climbed into the hansom, I asked, “Did you see her, Watson?”

“Miss Adler? I caught a glimpse.”

“She is a singularly lovely woman, is she not? And intelligent as well. Our royal client was right; she would have made an excellent queen.”

Watson shrugged. “You’ve always said that women are incapable of intelligent thought.”

“She is not a mere woman, Watson. She is _THE woman._ ” I silently stared out the cab window until we pulled up at my mother’s townhouse. The clocks were just striking six as we climbed out of the cab and hurried up the walk.

We were shown into the sitting room, where my mother was enthroned in her chair, talking to my brother. Dressed all in black silk, her iron-grey hair was pulled into a rather severe chignon, her face surrounded by pressed ringlets, the fashion of another age. She frowned as I entered, followed by Watson.

“You’re late,” she said. “What has happened to your face? You look as if you’ve been in a brawl.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said, bending to place a kiss on her cheek. “We were tracking a suspect and I managed to corner him in an alley. He took a swing at me, but Watson came to my rescue before he struck again. In short, no harm done.” I motioned for him to come forward. “May I present John Watson, my partner. My mother, Viola Sherringford Holmes.”

Watson smiled and held out his hand, bowing as he did. “I am very honoured to meet you, Mrs Holmes.”

She took his hand and held it, studying his face with sharp eyes. “You have an honest face, Mr Watson, but you are ridiculously pretty for a man. That will bring you trouble.” She glanced at me. “Perhaps it already has.”

Watson maintained his composure. “Madam, your son has graciously patronised me. I hope my service to him is sufficient to repay his generosity.”

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-five, madam.”

“My advice to you is this: give up the writing. It will bring you neither prestige nor prosperity. Writing is a vulgar profession filled with pandering scribblers. My elder son tells me that you are studying medicine, a tolerably respectable career for a man of your background. You must set yourself up in practice as soon as you are able. Marry a woman of good reputation and moderate fortune. With that face, you will have no shortage of candidates. But do not be deceived. A woman’s loveliness is a distraction, as it will inevitably fade. If she spends her time eating pastries and reading novels, she will soon lose both her figure and her complexion. Wit can be a distractor as well; a sharp tongue will quickly become a source of vexation. Choose wisely. The wife of a doctor must be clever enough to make ends meet on an income that will certainly be inadequate, once she begins to produce children. Do not marry a woman who will spend your salary on hats and dresses and gloves. She must be hard-working, not flirtatious, and resourceful, not vain. A woman who thinks herself finer than she is will become a shrew. I recommend that you have no more than three children, two boys and a girl. More than three will tax your resources. The boys may follow you into medicine, or law, perhaps. The girl, if she is as pretty as her father, may marry above her class.”

By the end of this speech, Watson’s mouth had fallen open.

“Indeed, Watson, you must take care,” I said. “Your marital bed must be as orderly as an accountant’s ledger. Girls may be conceived on any day of the week, but if you want boys, you must have coitus only on weekends and bank holidays.”

“Don’t be crude, Sherlock,” Mrs Holmes said. “Your speech has become shockingly vulgar. Perhaps you should serve a higher class of clients.”

I smirked. “The case we are currently working on is for one of the royal houses of Europe. I cannot reveal the client’s identity, but I will be paid well when I have fulfilled his charge to me.”

“Then what I have to say tonight will not dismay you, I hope,” she replied. “You and Mycroft are my only heirs under the will drawn up when your father died. I am currently consulting with my solicitor to change that document.”

I exchanged a look with my brother.

My mother laughed. “Do not look so shocked. Why did I give your father sons, if not to carry on his name? In spite of many opportunities, neither of you have fulfilled your family duty. Mycroft, at your stage of life, you might marry a widow, but no woman of child-bearing age will consider marrying a middle-aged clerk of uninspiring appearance. You have missed your opportunity and must accept the consequences.”

“I’m thirty-two, Mother,” he replied. “And financially secure. You need not worry about my future.”

“You are losing your hair,” she replied. “And you have grown quite obese. Indeed, I have not wasted even a moment thinking about your future. You are cunning as a cat, and will always land feet-first. I have no doubt that your habits of spending have been tediously frugal.” She turned to glare at me. “Sherlock may wish to reconsider his choices, however.”

I was silent— smiling, but less sure of myself.

“You are a fool,” she said to me. “You risk everything, and I am no longer willing to be your insurance policy. You might have gone into a respectable profession, but I have given up on that. You and your brother will receive nothing when I die. The entire estate will go to your cousin Alistair.” She paused, letting this sink in. “Because you are my son, however, I will give you one chance. If you marry, I may relent. And I do not mean a sham marriage to some older widow. You must marry with the intention of producing an heir.”

I glanced at Watson, who had turned pale. “Mother, though I have never given it much thought before, I am amenable to your suggestion. However, I am only twenty-five. Do you not think it reasonable to wait a few years? Watson and I have—“

“I was a mother at twenty-five. Producing children is a risky business; it’s best you get started soon. Besides, your trust has been set up to provide you the financial stability necessary to raise a family. There is no reason to put off your duty. I do not wish to wait for grandchildren until I am too old to make sure they are brought up correctly.”

Now I did not dare look at Watson.

Taking my silence as agreement, she continued. “I have in mind several women who would be suitable. You are a passably good-looking man, though no one would call you handsome. And you are my son. If you are bringing in upper class clients, there are families who would find you a suitable son-in-law. Do not call yourself a _detective_ , however. It makes one think of policemen. You are a _consultant_.”

 _There are other ways to get out of this_ , I thought. “Very well. Make introductions, and I shall try to behave like a good suitor.”

Her mouth unbent into a smile. “I am pleased that you have decided to be sensible. Tonight I have invited the Ashton-Farbridges and their daughter Lenore. They have agreed to allow you to court her. You will sit with her and be charming.”

She turned to Watson, who was flushed and beginning to perspire. “Mr Watson will be introduced to the Wickhams and their daughter Edith this evening. It might be a stretch, but they are humble enough that having a doctor as a son-in-law will please them. In your case a long engagement would be sensible, allowing you time to build your practice. They are aware that you do not come from money, but by no means should you say that you were raised in poverty. You may tell them that your father was a physician who sent you to the best schools he could afford. In Edinburgh, I think. The culture there is more refined than that of Northumberland. It would be best not to mention your military service; your lack of decorations and distinction will not add anything to your character. Your accent is not a problem, since you have clearly moderated it, but try not to sound uneducated. I assume that Sherlock has taught you how to behave in polished society. A handsome face may go a long ways, but manners will tip the balance.” She scrutinised his face with intent. “The moustache lends you an appearance of more maturity than you possess. You may keep it.”

“Thank you, madam,” he said.

She turned her attention back to me. “Lenore plays piano; you will accompany her on violin. Your school instrument is in your room; that will suffice for tonight. You may go tune it before our guests arrive.”

This gave me an opening to leave the room. Watson rose and said he might like to see the house where I’d grown up, but my mother gave him a stern look and asked what sort of music he enjoyed. Fortunately I’d schooled him in the classical composers and as I left the room, he was telling her how much he loved Tchaikovsky. She would tell him that Russians were tediously sentimental, and that he should listen only to German composers if he wished to train his ear.

By the time I returned with the violin, she had interrogated him about what books he read, whether he smoked tobacco (disgusting habit), and where he had purchased the suit he was wearing. She was advising him to seek a tailor who would not make him look like one of those young men who make a dubious income dancing with elderly ladies at seaside resorts. He was politely smiling and thanking her for her advice, clearly grateful that his part of the conversation consisted mainly of one-word replies.

We sipped dry sherry and listened to my mother talk about her many charity projects until the clock struck seven. As the last stroke resounded, her manservant announced that the guests had arrived, and we moved from the sitting room into a larger parlour to receive them.

Lenore Ashton-Farbridge was twenty-six, a pretty blonde with enough intelligence to converse sensibly. I found her tolerable, but uninteresting. Her advanced age made her parents anxious to see her married. She’d had a love affair which had ended badly, I deduced, which increased her parents’ pressure to find a suitable husband. Still, she could have been much worse. She was not a silly girl. During dinner, she smiled at my stories and subtly flattered me. Well-schooled in music, art, and literature, she could converse on all those subjects without sounding ignorant. While not a true beauty, her prettiness might age gracefully.

The Ashton-Farbridges were exactly the type of people my mother loves to cultivate. They probably owed her a favour. It was obvious that their daughter had disappointed their hopes of marrying up; they were settling for me because of whatever my mother had on them (most likely the unhappy love affair), but were not entirely happy about it. I could work with that, I decided.

Edith Wickham was twenty-four. The two girls were evidently friends, Lenore being the sweet, pretty one, and Edith her plain but witty companion. She had older brothers, all married. Her father was a bank clerk. She had auburn hair and a freckled face. Not ugly, but certainly no match in beauty for Watson. Her manners suggested that she had grown up a tomboy, romping with her brothers. She had a blunt way of saying things, a laugh that was occasionally too forward. She would marry Watson if her parents told her to, I deduced. Otherwise, she would end up serving as a governess for a wealthy family.

Wickham and his wife seemed like people too ordinary for my mother to bother about, which told me that she had sought them out specifically with Watson in mind. Perhaps she had met them through one of her charities. My brother spent spent the fish course allowing Mrs Wickham to tell him about her sons, the main course interrogating Mr Wickham, the banker, about the minutiae of that business. He has a gift for making boring people talk because he is equally boring.

I kept an eye on Watson, noting his consternation. He smiled and stammered and looked completely out of his element. Even the King of Bohemia had not unnerved him so. He had never mentioned any experience with women, and I wondered if this was the cause of his unease. Still, I had never noticed him display any shyness with our female clients.

I silently amused myself with observations about the company until the meal ended. We then retired to the room my mother grandly calls the _Conservatory_ , and Miss Ashton-Farbridge was obliged to play piano accompaniment to my violin. I played some gypsy airs, knowing that my mother hates them.

The entertainment ended when coffee was brought out, along with port for the men.

“Do you play an instrument, Mr Watson?” Miss Wickham asked.

He gave her a bashful smile. “No, I have not had the privilege of music lessons. And you?”

“I have not the talent. My parents tried, but when it became clear that it was a waste of time and money, they gave it up.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin. “I’m sure my brothers all rejoiced when they no longer had to hear me scraping the violin. It made everyone think of cats being tortured.” She nodded at me. “You play divinely, Mr Holmes. If only Mr Watson had learned, you might play duets.”

“Watson’s divinity lies in other areas,” I replied.

Miss Wickham smiled, her eyebrows raised. “Do tell!”

Watson threw me a look of despair.

“His character, Miss Wickham, is divine. He is so sweet and obliging that he cannot possibly offend. Wherever he goes, he gives only _pleasure_. I believe his personal motto is _turn the other cheek._ A true _lover_ of his fellow _man_.”

Watson kept his eyes on the carpet.

“He will make a good doctor, then,” she replied. “Though doctors have to deal with many unpleasant things.”

“He is a _passionate_ man,” I said, exploring the possible innuendos. “ _Firm_ in his commitment to the relief of suffering, whatever discomfort it may cause him personally. And he is a dedicated student of human anatomy, as well.”

“That must be interesting,” Miss Wickham said, turning to inspect her companion, who had found a different spot on the carpet to study. “Have you dissected cadavers, Mr Watson?”

“Oh, Edith,” said Miss Ashton-Farbridge. “You mustn’t ask such things. You embarrass him!”

“She does it to see him blush,” I said, smiling.

“It’s all right.” Watson said, still blushing. “I’ve participated in several dissections as a necessary part of my surgical training. I’m not terribly squeamish.”

She gave him a cheeky smile. “And do you examine patients as well?”

“Of course. I do rounds at St Bart’s, and see a variety of ailments.”

“Do you not think it a shame that there are so few female doctors?” she asked. “I know that I always blush when I am examined, even though Doctor Sterling has been my physician since I was a child. Do you not blush, Mr Watson, when you examine ladies?”

This comment deepened Watson’s blush to scarlet. He cleared his throat. “One learns to be professional. One cannot think of them as ladies when they are in need of care.”

“I see,” she said. “And what will be your specialisation?”

“Mr Holmes has suggested that I become a surgeon. As I am his partner, it would make sense for me to study in a variety of fields, including the treatment of wounds.”

“Well, I’m sure that will be more interesting than treating rashes and runny noses. You will continue working with Mr Holmes, then?”

Watson looked directly at me. “Of course. As long as he is happy with my contributions to our partnership, I will continue to work with him. If he is dissatisfied, he may replace me, of course. He is not one to keep such sentiments to himself.”

“True,” I replied. “I am a _hard_ man to please, Miss Wickham. Mr Watson has been the recipient of my _bluntness_ many times, but he is a quick learner and improves continually. He _pleases_ me well.”

The ladies smiled at Watson, who seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

We took a cab home to Baker Street. As we rumbled over the streets, I was humming Sarasate, waiting to see what Watson would say,.

"Holmes,” he said at last. “Are we really to court these ladies? I confess, I have had some experience with women, but they were not, erm, ladies.”

“You did very well tonight, Watson.”

“What is the plan? You told your mother that you were _amenable._ You agreed to let her set up a match. Will you refuse to marry?”

“I am merely buying us time,” I replied.

“But your mother—“

“You do not know my mother, Watson, or what she is capable of. We will not change her mind by defying her. It will only make her more determined. And devious. We will outlast her, agreeing with her, but not carrying out our promises.”

“I see. But if I am to pretend to court Miss Wickham, I will not deceive her. You may think my moral qualities weak, but I stop at this, encouraging her affections when I have no intention of marrying her. She seems a fine girl, and I refuse to play the Lothario. Are you really going to propose to Miss Ashton-Farbridge?”

“Perhaps.” I shrugged. “It will be a long engagement, I predict. Regardless of what my mother says, I will find ways to postpone it.”

“Eventually, though—“ He sighed. "Holmes, I am not made like you. I mean, you may not have romantic feelings, but for me… That is…what I am trying to say is—“

“What does marriage have to do with romance?” I said. “It is a business arrangement, pure and simple. You do not have to _love_ the girl to marry her. Miss Wickham will not expect romance.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

We had arrived. I paid the driver and followed Watson inside. Once upstairs, he poured us each a tot of brandy and we settled into our chairs.

“Do you not wish to know what I meant?” he asked.

I heaved a sigh and rubbed my eyes.

He rose then and came to me, kneeling at me feet. Holding my hands in his, he said, “I can’t make any claim on you, Sherlock, and I have never expected from you any expression of sentiment, but it’s very hard for me to think about sharing you with anyone.”

I looked into his lovely eyes. It would be so easy to simply say what I felt, but it would be pointless as well. The love I saw in his eyes was mirrored in my own heart. What good would it do to say these things to one another? He could never belong to me, and I could never be his.

“Don’t worry, John,” I said. “Let’s go to bed.”

The following day, we took a cab to Irene Adler’s house. I knew her habits well enough to predict that she would be out on her daily drive. I sent Watson around to the kitchen door, where he was to pretend to be delivering a package. Having worked as a delivery boy at one point, he was certain that he could charm his way inside and keep the women spellbound long enough for me to slip through the garden doors, go into the drawing room, and nab the portrait from its hiding place. 

The garden doors were locked, forcing me to climb through the window, which had been left unlocked. On the sill, I listened carefully, but heard nothing— no voices, no creaking stairs, no footsteps. Besides this, there were signs that the occupants had packed and left in great haste. The furniture had been hastily covered with drop clothes.

“Damnation!” I ranted. “How did she manage so quickly? I should have set someone to watch.”

I saw hands on the window sill, the top of a bowler hat appearing. Watson swung a leg over the sill. “No one in the kitchen,” he said. Looking around the room, he frowned. “They’ve bolted?”

“She knew,” I growled, heading towards the hiding place. “She saw through my ruse, but played along. What gave it away?”

I fiddled with the panel until it slid open. As I expected, it was empty.

“Your disguise was perfect,” he said. “Even I would not have known you with the white wig and whiskers. And the accent—”

“Oh, stop it, Watson.” I slammed the secret panel shut. “You need not flatter my ego so shamelessly. Rather, I deserve your mockery. I have been bested by a woman.”

“She is not a mere woman, you said. She is _THE woman._ ”

I headed for the door. “We need to figure out what to tell our royal client.”

A few days went by without any demands from my mother. I hoped that I had made an unsatisfactory impression on the Ashton-Farbridges and would not hear anything more about that match. My mother is a master strategist, though, and I was certain that she had several more women lined up if the first was not interested. I shuddered, imagining an endless string of tedious evenings spent in their company.

Watson was at Barts, doing his rounds, and I was reading an article about the Bertillon System of physical identification. One physical marker, fingerprints, was superior, he claimed.; even identical twins do not share the same whorls on their finger pads. I was remembering a case I’d once had involving identical twins, where that system might have proved useful. In that case, one twin had killed the other and taken his identity, having learned his signature well enough to forge it. It was his twin’s wife that spotted the difference, a small scar on his lower abdomen. One day, the author claimed, police departments would keep records of the fingerprints of all criminals.

I was so engrossed in the article that I didn’t even hear Mrs Hudson letting someone in, didn’t realise I had a visitor until I looked up and saw my brother Mycroft coming through the door.

“Well, brother,” he said. “I come bearing a gift, one that will no doubt be unwelcome.”

He handed me a small box. Opening it, I saw my mother’s diamond ring winking back at me.

“No,” I said.

“You agreed,” he replied. “Our mother wishes to have this matter settled by week’s end. A June wedding, I believe, is what she is planning for. She’s already reserved the church.”

“No.”

“Be reasonable, Sherlock.” He settled his bulk in Watson’s chair. “You are rebelling simply because that is what you do whenever our mother wishes something. In this case, I think she is right. No one expects you to love the girl. Marriage is simply a means to an end.”

“That end being a child,” I said, “which will result from a pregnancy, which will require me to do things that I have sworn never to do with a woman. How is it that you are not expected to do this as well?”

“Our mother does not believe me capable of finding a woman who will marry me. In any case, that is not the end I was implying. How long do you think that you and Watson can carry on sharing bachelor quarters without raising suspicions? People talk, Sherlock.”

I snorted. “They do little else. Why do I have to explain my living situation? Not all men wish to marry, brother. Not all men wish to produce children.”

He sighed. “True. But it isn’t as if you would be raising your own offspring. That’s what a wife is for. Separate worlds, yours and hers. Think of how many couples we know who rarely see one another. Even our own father, when he was alive, was hardly ever around. There’s the shooting season, and hunting season, and the fishing trips to Scotland. When in town, there are evenings at the club—”

“I can’t do it.” I gave him a sharp look. “And if Mother thinks I care about the money, she’s wrong.”

“I’m merely suggesting that you might live your own life and have the money as well. Principles are fine things, but they don’t pay the rent.”

“I’m not refusing on any sort of principle,” I replied. “You know what kind of man I am.”

He smiled. “I do. You are not singular, Sherlock. Our father was like you, and yet he managed to sire two sons with our mother.”

I sat up straight. “What? Did Mother know?”

“Our mother is a very strong woman, as you know. She notices only what she wishes to notice, and does it with unwavering intensity. What she does not wish to notice does not exist.”

“Well, if she thinks she can create a wedding simply by willing it into existence, she is wrong. If she wants to waste her money on churches and reception halls and whatever other nonsense weddings entail, she may do so. I will not marry.”

“Brother.” He sighed. “It would not be wise to refuse her. She has also noticed John Watson, and your great affection for him.”

“Yes, I know. She is determined to find him a bride as well. But I know my Watson; he will not wed.”

“That’s possible,” he replied. “But there are other ways she could come between you. She has many friends and a great deal of influence. Marriage is only one way to remove him from your life.”

“She wouldn’t—“

“She certainly would. Do not refuse her, Sherlock. Once you’re married, you can set your wife up in the country, while you spend most of your time in town.”

I was trying to wrap my brain around the idea that my mother might ruin Watson just to see me married. “I will think about it.”

He nodded at the ring box. “Do not think too long.”


	3. Chapter 3

I put on evening dress and studied myself in the mirror. _Passably good-looking. Not handsome._ I had never wasted a moment thinking about my face, assuming always that money can buy whatever beauty cannot. A woman, being naturally inclined to romance, might consider a man’s appearance, though. She might find him amiable or detestable for entirely spurious reasons. You might (hypothetically) teach a woman logic, train her to argue by its principles, but it would be like teaching algebra to a cat. I have met only one woman who could out-think me, but it must be said that there is only one Irene Adler.

Miss Ashton-Farbridge might be romantic, as women tend to be, but she had reasons to be practical as well. At her age, she would worry that if she passed up one offer, another would not be forthcoming. By now she had certainly realised that romance fades, but money in the bank can provide a bulwark against misfortune. Clearly, she could not refuse a man like me, intelligent, successful, and able to provide her with security.

“I will be out this evening, Watson,” I called. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“As it happens, I will also be out,” Watson said, appearing in the doorway. “The Wickhams have invited me to dinner. Apparently they liked what they saw.”

I turned from the mirror and looked at him. He was wearing his grey suit, the one that made his eyes appear almost cerulean, and his fair hair shone like burnished gold. Handsome, as always. He is not a vain man excepting where his moustache is concerned. That was freshly waxed, the ends artfully twirled.

I turned back to the mirror, taking my comb in hand and making another attempt to tame my unruly curls. “There is nothing to dislike in your appearance or manners, John.”

He smiled. “If we must play at being suitors, I will do my part. And you? Are you seeing Miss Ashton-Farbridge tonight?”

“Yes, I’m taking her to Pagani’s.” I took the ring box from my pocket and tossed to him.

He caught the box and opened it, then looked alarmed. “You’re proposing? So soon?”

“Why wait? I know that I am an acquired taste, Watson, and cannot expect her to be dazzled by me for long. I must move quickly. So, tonight it is.”

“I thought—” Watson frowned and chewed his lip. “I thought this was just a game, Holmes. A ruse to placate your mother.”

“I do not love the lady, if that is what worries you. My motive is a practical one: she will provide a buffer against suspicion. For you, as well.” I finished smoothing my hair and took my top hat off the rack. “Well, time for me to be off. Wish me luck.”

“Sherlock, I…” He hesitated.

“Well, what is it, John?”

He ducked his head. “Good luck.”

I waited until the blancmange was served to ask her. We had been chatting amiably over our entrees, and though I do not generally find female company interesting, she was tolerable. I did not dislike her.

“Miss Ashton-Farbridge,” I began. “Perhaps the idea of an arranged match is disagreeable to you, as it seems to lack the romantic quality we have come to expect in marriage. You must concede, however, that in matrimony there are things more important than romance. As individuals, you and I are obviously compatible. Though my intelligence is superior, I enjoy your company, and you clearly have much to gain from a marriage with me. Let us not waste time on pointless flirtation. I wish to marry you. Our parents are counting on it, and letting more time go by before we make our plans will not change the fact that this marriage benefits us all. I see every sign of success in our union. You will produce children before you are too old to do so, and I am sure you will raise them to be fine people.” I took the ring box from my pocket, opened it, and set it before her. “This was my mother’s ring. The setting is old, but the diamond has appreciated in value. It could be reset, if you wish. Or perhaps you wish to choose your own ring. I am amenable to either of these ideas.”

I thought about taking her hand and putting it on her finger, but she was holding her dessert spoon, appearing transfixed by my words.

For a long moment she gazed at me, and I fancied that it was love I saw in her eyes. Or admiration. She remained speechless, her blancmange untasted.

I waited, returning her gaze with what I hoped was a fond look. At last she laid her spoon on the dish and looked me in the eye.

“And how will you benefit, Mr Holmes?”

I gave her my best smile, the one I always use when convincing a woman to share information with me. She was no Irene Adler, but she would do. She was intelligent enough not to challenge my proclivities, once she figured them out, and, after producing the desired heir, would no doubt leave me to my cases, my experiments, and my Watson.

“Every man wants an heir, does he not?” I replied. “It would please my mother to see the family name carried on. I confess that I had not thought about marriage before meeting you, but now, having considered it more thoroughly, I admit that it is a sensible move for a bachelor such as myself. As a woman, you have many natural talents that I lack. You will be the angel who smooths over chaos of my existence, providing an orderly environment for the important work I do. We will, of course, have people to do the laundry and the cooking. My mother will insist. And the children must have a tutor, I suppose. Hm. How many children would you be willing to have? I would not like us to extend ourselves, but if you wish—“

“Mr Holmes,” she said, giving me an earnest look. “I must decline.”

“Decline?” It took me a moment to realise that my mouth had dropped open. “Oh. I see. Your modesty prevents you from accepting this unexpected proposal. You do not wish to appear desperate; therefore, I must woo you. Very well. We could perhaps go to a few concerts or plays. A month’s courtship will be enough to sooth your vanity. I will ask again.” I put the box back in my pocket. “Would you like coffee?”

She frowned. “You misunderstand me, Mr Holmes. There is nothing you can do to woo me. I will not change my mind, not in a month, not in a year. I do not wish to marry you.”

This speech left me once again gaping like a fish. “But— why?”

“For all that I am twenty-six and single, I do have some standards. You are clearly seeking a convenient wife to provide you with the appearance of a respectable life. I will not marry for convenience, sir. Your mother has demanded that you propose to me. Very well, you have fulfilled that obligation.”

“My dear lady,” I said. “I offer you my heart, and you talk of convenience.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “I do not know you well, but I am certain that I cannot make you happy. Nor can you make me happy. Let us part as friends.”

Chagrined, I summoned a cab and took her home. The ride seemed very long; we did not speak.

When we reached her house, she turned to me and said, “Mr Holmes, I hope that you will be happy.”

“You have not broken my heart, Miss Ashton-Farbridge.” I said this with more irritation than I had intended. “My mother is a formidable woman, as you have seen. I try to please her when I can.” I helped her down from the cab. “For what it is worth, I do not think I would not have been a terrible husband.”

She smiled. “Yes, you would.”

She offered her gloved hand. I took it, kissed it, and said good night.

I was surprised to find that Watson was still out when I returned. This was not a good sign. Miss Wickham was certainly not worthy of him, plain and full of freckles as she was.

When I first hired Watson, I remembered thinking that he would one day leave me and marry. Now it alarmed me to think that day might be imminent. In truth, it alarmed me to think of Watson with anyone else, whether male or female. Miss Ashton-Farbridge had not broken my heart, but it was clear that I did have one. Watson was mine; the freckle-faced girl would not have him.

I sulked. Who was that woman to have rejected me? I was asuccessful man, well-known, consulted even by royalty. Had I wished to marry, I would have no trouble finding a bride. Indeed, women had aimed their snares at me before, and I had left them empty-handed. Perhaps I am not handsome in a traditional sense, but women are silly to care about such things. I was not a man to be rejected; I was meant to do the rejecting.

I wondered. Had she seen through me? Were my little jokes less subtle than I thought? Did she notice something between me and Watson? _A convenient wife,_ she’d said. Both men and women marry to elevate their social status, or for economic reasons, and nobody thinks badly of that. Why shouldn’t I have a wife, whatever my reasons might be, and why should this _female_ think that I was merely using her?

The more I thought about it, the more irritated I became. I had known Watson for an opportunist, and perhaps he had been successful where I had failed. I imagined him having that June wedding, setting up practice, living with his freckled wife, producing a brood of freckled children. He would have no time to pursue mysteries, no interest in me.

I pictured myself alone in our rooms, the lonely nights and silent mornings. No Watson clattering in our little kitchen, getting my tea ready to serve the moment I awakened. No one to take notes and organise my files. I imagined taking cases without him, all joy of the chase gone. His practice would grow as his family increased, and he would have no time for me. He would become successful, even renowned, while my own practice dwindled. Eventually he would regard me as a brief and possibly shameful incident in his past. He would put me out of his mind. I would grow old on Baker Street, alone and friendless.

I imagined running into him some twenty years hence. I would be prematurely grey, bent over before my time, out of work and living off my brother’s largesse.

He would walk right by me, still handsome and prosperous, and I would whisper, _John._

Hearing his name, he would stop and turn, his eyes widening in shock. _Sherlock? What’s happened to you?_

And I would tell him, _I couldn’t do it by myself. I needed you—_

At this point I would begin to cough, which would suggest that I had a consumptive disease. As a doctor, he would know that such a cough spelled doom, that it was too late for him to save me.

And he would weep to see what had become of me. He would beg my forgiveness for leaving me, abandoning me for a woman, promise that he would nurse me back to health…

Through my tears, I smiled at his regret. Maudlin, but very satisfying.

By the time the clock was striking midnight, I had worked myself into a thoroughly pitiful state. When I heard Watson come through the door, his feet on the stairs, I did not rouse. I stayed in my chair, hugging my knees and staring into what remained of the fire, those dying embers symbolic of all I had lost.

“Hullo! I didn’t think you’d still be up,” he said, hanging his coat and hat by the door. “Everything all right?”

He looked neither intoxicated nor anxious nor depressed. Clearly, he had been successful. Edith Wickham was not a catch, but he had made his move. I shuddered and gave a great sigh.

"Holmes, are you ill?”

“Not ill, no.”

“What, then? You look thoroughly wretched.”

“Hum. Perhaps.”

“I see. Is it to be a June wedding, then, for you and Miss Ashton-Farbridge?”

In reply, I took the ring box from my pocket and threw it at him. His reflexes were good; he caught it. His brain was not so quick. “You did not ask her?”

“That—” I stifled the urge to use profanity followed by a vulgar insult. “The lady declined.”

“Declined?”

“Refused, rejected, rebuffed, repudiated—”

“Ah. Did she give a reason?”

“She will not marry for _convenience_. It seems she would rather be an old maid than marry a man like me.”

“Like you?” Watson sat in the chair opposite. “What exactly did she say?”

“That we could not make one another happy. Happy! In what way is happiness material to marriage?”

“It is generally a consideration when one is contemplating a lifetime of matrimony, you know.” He smiled. “But this was what you hoped, did you not? You were not actually considering marriage, were you?”

“I was prepared…” I gave another pitiful sigh. “Well, evidently you have had better luck than I. When is the happy day to be?”

He laughed. “You have deduced wrongly.”

I saw hope lighting my horizon. “What? Did you not ask her?”

“I did not.”

“But she will expect it. When, Watson? When will you ask her?”

“I do not intend to ask her.” Grinning, he lounged back in his chair. “Marriage with Miss Wickham is off the table.”

“You’re teasing me, Watson. Stop it— just tell me what happened, from the beginning. Omit no details.”

“Of course. Dinner was lovely. Her brothers and their wives are delightful. Her parents are delightful. They all found me delightful. Mutual admiration all around.”

“Oh, do get to the point!. _Of course_ they admired you. What happened?”

“Miss Wickham suggested that we two go to see a musical, and so we did. We were able to get tickets to _Utopia_. Frankly, it has not been well attended, so getting tickets was not difficult. It wasn’t bad, but I prefer their earlier collaborations, to be honest. _The Pirates of Penzance_ —”

I slapped my palm to my forehead. “Have mercy, Watson! No theatre reviews. I have no desire to see any of Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan’s entertainments. Proceed with the events of the evening. And no descriptions of finery— or blow by blow narratives of inane conversations.”

“You said, _omit no details._ As I recall, you have often reminded me that details—“

“Continue,” I said testily. “You may omit details not relevant to the question of marriage.”

“Right,” said Watson, looking a bit mischievous. “After the play, we walked a bit, looking for a cab. I have not the ability to summon cabs effortlessly, as you do. One day, you must show me how it’s done. At any rate,” he continued, viewing my growing irritation with amusement, “we discussed a possible alliance.”

“Alliance?” I pulled my hair. “You are not world powers!”

“I did not ask her,” Watson said. “And yet, she expected me to ask. She said, _I must tell you, Mr Watson, as charming as I find you, I cannot consider marriage with you._ ”

“Explain.”

“She said that if I should ask, she would not accept my proposal. Her reason, having nothing to do with me, is as follows: she and Miss Ashton-Farbridge are in a romantic relationship, and neither of them intends to marry. They plan to open a school in Walsall and live together. For obvious reasons, they have not told their parents. They are attempting to do exactly what you and I have attempted: appease parents, avoid marriage.”

I was silent for a moment, taking this in. “They are… tribades?”

“Yes. Lesbians. Daughters of Sappho. Inverts. Homosexuals.”

“Well, that puts a different spin on things,” I said. “Perhaps I am not repulsive to females. Not that their repulsion would in any way affect me.”

Watson chuckled, came to me, and sat on the arm of my chair, stroking my hair. “You are not repulsive, my dear. I might call you handsome, but that would only feed your unbridled ego. Or charming, but that would be an outright lie. What I mean is that I don’t care what your mother wants. I do not intend to marry Miss Wickham or anyone else she digs up for me to court. I only want you.”

“But why, Watson? Women adore you— and you are always a bit flirtatious with them. I think you do it to annoy me. Your feelings towards females are softer than mine, and a marriage would give you an appearance of respectability. It can only help your career, something you must undoubtedly consider as you are about to set yourself up in practice. A wife would complete your life, whereas I can only complicate it. Why would you want to stick with me? I’m stroppy, unpleasant, untidy, arrogant, petty—”

He slipped off the arm of the chair into my lap. For a while our mouths were occupied with kissing. Finally he pulled away, his face flushed. “I stick with you because you have driven me to such an extent of insanity that I can no longer imagine a life without you.”

“Well. I suppose that is something to be proud of.”

The following afternoon we had just settled ourselves for tea when the bell rang. I heard Mrs Hudson open the door and a female voice speaking below.

“Perfect,” I groused. “Another woman, probably wanting me to find her bloody terrier or her bloody diamond necklace or her bloody fiancee who disappeared the day after she told him that the family fortune was going to her brother.”

There was a knock on the door. Watson got up and opened it.

And there stood Irene Adler, looking elegant in a silk dress and a fur-trimmed wrap, wearing a tiny hat with a veil that covered her face. “Mr Holmes,” she said, looking past Watson. “How delightful to finally meet you undisguised.”

“Miss Adler. I was under the impression that you had moved house.”

“I’m leaving England tonight,” she said. “With my husband.”

“Your husband?” Watson said.

Removing her gloves, she turned her attention on him. “Charming.” Taking his face in her hands, she said, “A face like this, one might be willing to die for. Or more likely, go to jail for.” She patted his cheek, turned and smiled at me. “This morning I married Godfrey Norton at the Church of St Monica. We intend to live in New York and do not plan to return.”

“And the photograph? My client will pay if you return it.”

She stepped towards me. “Your client may rest in peace. I am loved by a far better man than he, and shall keep it only to safeguard myself.”

I could not resist asking. “What gave me away?”

She laughed. “Do not feel disappointed. You did very well. You took me in completely until the alarm. When I realised it was fake, I knew at once that I’d betrayed myself. I knew of you, naturally, and had been warned that he might hire you to get it back. You are quite a fine actor, Mr Holmes.” She handed me an envelope. “This is for you. You may give it to _him,_ if he wants it.”

I opened the envelope. It was a photograph of her in evening dress. “He may rely on your discretion about the affair?”

“Of course. I am no blackmailer, Mr Holmes. I did love him, and I was angry when I heard of his engagement. But I am not vengeful. I will not publish the photograph.” She turned to smile at Watson. “You lovely thing,” she said, taking his chin in her hand. “Do be careful of this man.” Then she kissed him on the cheek.

“Good day, Mr Holmes,” she said.

Fortunately the King was content with my account of her visit and accepted her promise not to damage his current engagement.

“What a woman!” he said, shaking his head. “Had she had been on my level, I might have married her. A pity, is it not?”

“Indeed,” I said. “She seems to be on a very different level to your Majesty.”

Later that night, we lay in bed sweaty and sated.

“You were rather enthusiastic tonight, my love,” he said. “I like it when you want me like that.”

“Pent-up libido,” I replied, settling my head on his chest.

“I was worried. I thought you might abandon me.”

“For Miss What’s-Her-Name-hyphen-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck? Hardly. She was ordinary. You are extraordinary.”

“Do you really think so? Next to you, I often feel like a bird of lesser plumage.”

“You’re beautiful,” I said sleepily. “That woman should have snapped you up. I’m glad she didn’t.”

“I worried, too, about Miss Adler. I have never heard you praise a woman so.”

“She has a gift that most women lack, namely intelligence. And she is beautiful.”

“I was not aware that you noticed such things.”

“Beauty? Of course. The human psyche is designed to notice a pleasing symmetry, whether in a flower or a face, a sunset or a silhouette. Unfortunately, she is a woman.”

He sat up and looked down at me. “Please tell me, Sherlock, if you ever tire of me. I would rather part as friends than see you drift away.”

“Never.” I yawned. “I am a man of habit, as you know, and you’ve become one of them. I do not easily alter my ways.”

“How shall we tell your mother that her efforts have failed?”

“We need but wait, and she will change her mind. We’ll send her flowers, I think. She will appreciate the gesture. And we’ll come to dinner more often. She will read your stories, and critique them, and come to love you because there is not a woman alive who does not find you irresistible, and though she will never admit it, she has a proclivity for romance. I have no worries, even if she changes her will. Money is nice to have, Watson, but life isn’t all about money.”

“True. It’s actually about love.”

I raised my head. “No, it’s about _power_.” I settled myself back on his chest.

“You're such a romantic.”

“Bollocks.”

He kissed me. “There is something I want.”

“What is it, John? Just ask. I’m feeling magnanimous.”

“Could you please put Miss Adler’s photo in a drawer? I don’t fancy her watching us from the top of the bureau while we—”

I chuckled. “She would probably enjoy it.”

“Well, I don’t. You admire her. That makes me feel jealous.”

“Have no worries on that account, John. I do not pine for her. She bested me, it is true. I am drawn to her intelligence, her audacity, and her shrewdness. But you are mine, and I will take care of you. No freckled girl will take you from me. Nor will any woman turn my head, not even Irene Adler, a woman wooed by kings.”

“Then please, for my sake, put her photo away. I want you all to myself.”

“Very well.” I slipped out of bed and put the photo face down. Once I was back in bed, I wrapped my arms around him. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic. Thank you, love.”


End file.
